


and your very flesh shall be a great poem

by tosca1390



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is a warrior first, a woman second. Set pre-movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and your very flesh shall be a great poem

*

Sif stands alone at her wide window, watching the kingdom settle. Silk sits uneasily on her skin, her thick hair heavy with adornments that weigh on her scalp.

Asgard is quiet once again, darkness settling thickly over the realm. Sif is weary at the end of this day, another day filled with practice duels with Thor and Fandral and heavy tiring looks from her good mother at the feast table. There has been a long spell of peace and ease between the realms, and as grateful as she is for that, when it lingers too long she is reminded of how much she has not grown in the view her mother would like, how she stands out among gods and goddesses alike.

Her mother’s gaze has been on her at each feast for some time now, a plea of sorts in her gaze. _Marry_ , Sif thinks she can read in the clear eyes. _Marry, and let me be content_. Wife, consort; these are labels meant for women, goddess or mortal, and when one slips out of the mold, the system shudders with fear.

They are also labels Sif has no need for. She is a warrior first, a woman second. Since her once-golden curls littered the ground around her ankles and her hair grew back thick and dark as night, she has known it to be true.

Still, she thinks as she turns from her window and to her vanity, sometimes it would just be easier to fit the mold built for her.

A cool hand, sharp and striking against her skin, catches her wrist. “Lady, you have had me linger long.”

Chest stuttering with surprise, she glances to the side. Loki stands at her side, his face implacable as always. His armor glints silver-green in the fading evening light. “You startled me.”

“My lady must have been deep in thought if that is true,” he says, a sharp smirk slowing curling his mouth.

Wetting her lips, she slips her wrist from his loose grip and moves to the smooth polished vanity. She does not sit; instead she bends at the waist to catch her own face in the mirror, her hands falling to the heavy brooches pinning back her hair. “My good mother delayed me. I am sorry for the inconvenience,” she says, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

His eyes fall to the line of her body through the silk of her gown. A shiver crests through her. “You are never sorry, Sif.”

“Neither are you. It fits, then, that we should get along so well,” she says tartly, setting the silver-and-amber brooch on the top of her vanity. Her hair falls in thick waves against her cheek.

Abruptly he is behind her, his hand curving to the sweep of her waist. Her fingers still at the second brooch. This is not a new facet to their relationship, but it still startles her all the same. “Outsiders, both of us.”

“I rather like it that way,” she says fiercely, straightening. Her back fits to his chest as he leans in, his mouth finding the line of her throat with practiced ease. “Don’t you?”

“My lady, I like few things. You know that,” he says, the low smooth hum of his voice reverberating through her skin.

She cannot help but roll her eyes, setting the second brooch down and turning to face him. “You are not the mystery you think you are, Loki,” she says, looking him in the eye.

There is that half-smirk again, a faint flutter of genuine affection curling the line of his mouth. “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” he says, his hands cool through her silk gown against her skin. His fingers fold in the thin soft fabric as he slides his hands to the clasp at her shoulder. His mouth lingers near her jaw, her throat.

He is the one who set her on this path, at her asking so long ago. He cut her hair, and cut her free from the ties that bind. It’s only right that she give in return. She slides her hands firmly across the lean span of his armored chest, searching for the clasps and buckles to free him. It’s a familiar dance of hands and mouths by now.

“They would have you marry my brother, you know,” he murmurs conversationally as he peels the silk from her body, edging her back against the lip of the vanity.

She scoffs, her mouth at his pale cool jaw. Her fingers sweep back the sleek dark hair from his brow and linger in the curling ends at the nape of his neck. “That will never happen. Can you imagine it?”

“No,” he says, voice low and serious. His mouth bites at the column of her throat as her gown pools at her ankles.

The lip of the vanity indents the skin across the small of her back. She sits up and balances herself on the top instead, the vanity cool to her bare skin. He follows her, a dark line of shadows and pale skin between her thighs. “Then pay no mind. I am a wife to no one, sir,” she murmurs as their mouths meet, open and wet and warm.

His armor falls to her chamber floor with a dull clatter. He smiles into her lips. “Not even to a king?”

She breathes against his lips, her fingers digging into the cool hard skin of his chest. It took her a long time to become accustomed to the always lingering chill of his skin; now, she finds it quite pleasurable. “What king would that be?”

His hands drift down the line of her stomach to the dark wet between her thighs. “That remains to be seen, my lady,” he murmurs.

Shutting her eyes, she hitches a thigh across his hip and arches into the slide of his fingers. There is portent in his words, a sensation of dread mixing with the desire sweeping through her veins. At this moment, she wants nothing else but this moment, these hours together. She cannot imagine anyone else here, like this, or a future without it.

She does not want to imagine it.

*


End file.
